If Not Now
by Angelas
Summary: In which Legolas is stricken with a longing for Aragorn, and feels himself begin to fade. [AraLas] Two-Shot.
1. Dimming

**I've been meaning to write this as a fill for the Hobbit kink meme for almost a year now. No time like the present. :D **

**Based after the events of the third LOTR movie (ROTK). c:**

**oOo**

A warm day wrapped in white and celebration.

All that had once snared Middle-Earth into shadow had been cleansed, and so the coronation of the returning king had offered a feast for all.

It was a dream, must have been–

the way the long, brown curls of her twining Elven hair had synced to the silken contours of her hip as if they'd been exclusively conjured to belong there; the way her blinding, white smile had so easily kindled the King of Gondor into his bliss.

Yes, truly a dream, because Legolas had seen Aragorn smile only once before, and even that smile hadn't been borne for him, but for Arwen.

A void began to take root, a crippling sadness that sunk Legolas' smile by the inch– though the Elven prince would never speak a word of it even after Aragorn had stood before him, placing his powerful palm against the lithe twine of his shoulder.

"Mellon nin," he'd said, "I am glad to have crossed paths. I will never forget you."

And though his throat felt to have corked itself shut, Legolas had nodded with a sort of smile before saying that he, too, would never forget. Aragorn took his hand away, leaving Legolas' shoulder to grow cold in the warm wind of that evening before walking off, Arwen in hand.

Legolas looked to her before stepping back, to the white silk of her dress and to the selflessness of her colored eyes, and decided that this was how it was to be, how it was to_ stay_, how it would inevitably end, and that he would never speak of what he'd felt, or might have felt– now or then.. for all days that would remain.

He couldn't stay a moment longer.

And so he rode on horseback towards the dark bowers of the wood, into the thick borders of Mirkwood–

Of home.

**oOo**

At first, Legolas would see Aragorn at least thrice a season, if not four.

They would speak of past travels, smile in soundless reminiscence, or simply nod in acceptance before they once again parted ways, all usually in the breadth of a few, precious seconds.

Each visit would only ever be a symbol of fealty, of friendship, and so Legolas would hold the last foolish ounce of his hope somewhere far away from him, forcing himself to quietly accept the situation for what it was.

And what it was, was not what Legolas would dream of every night with wide open eyes.

But as the long months fell through the healing trees of the wood, seldom became the day in which Legolas would see Aragorn anymore. He'd seen him only once (if for a short moment) on a Summer's dawn, until, finally, in the cold fall of Autumn, the King of Gondor had entirely ceased his visits for good.

If sheer devastation could have driven an Elf mad, Legolas would have ebbed.

For days he attempted to lose himself within the cedars, silently wishing he hadn't known each and every crook of the wood like the very arc of his bow.

He climbed onto the high tops, treading further and further away from the Elvenking's fortress with each day that passed, for each and every morning Legolas would religiously travel to the very border of the wood to wait and to look far into the horizon for any trace of Aragorn's impending visit with a burning, desperate look in his Elven, lovelorn eyes.

And he would watch and wait until night placated onto the verdant meadows of the distance, until his father sent his worry by courier and demanded his son's immediate return; but even then, Legolas would leave the danger of the border only, and _if,_ Tauriel herself was sent to fetch him.

She would say nothing for several weeks, but when Legolas' eyes began to bleach, and his skin became much too pale, she'd no other choice but to shatter the unspoken silence between them. She stopped them both at the gates and approached him, finally speaking her worry into his ear.

"You must speak to your father," she said. "Please."

But Legolas said nothing in response and instead attempted to walk past her, eyes down to the low ground and with his hair no longer so much as his father's. Once so beautifully flaxen, now fading into white. Tauriel's brow furrowed, and she reached to pull him right back where he was by the arm.

"You are not yourself," she pressed. "You are ill, Legolas. You must speak to the King."

"_Ill_? And what would my father have me do? What _would_ he do?" he hissed.

Tauriel's mouth opened, but she could find nothing to say. She pressed her lips together and looked away. Though her and the Prince had grown into what they were together for many years, she quickly acknowledged that she had more than forgotten her place.

"I'm sorry," Legolas said after a moment. "You're right, Tauriel. I am not myself."

He turned to leave, leaving an air of pining behind that Tauriel could no longer bring herself to ignore. She took a breath and dared herself to speak.

"It is your friend, isn't it?" she said softly. Legolas froze gelid in his tracks. "He no longer comes, but I still see the mourn in your eyes. It is because his heart belongs to the daughter of Celebrian, and not to you." She paused, wary of what she knew. "Legolas, you are fading."

She waited, but Legolas remained silent and instead mounted his steed and disappeared into the dark shadow of the wood.

**oOo**

Two nights later, Legolas sent word by messenger to the white walls of Gondor, but received no form of response.

The void in him grew by the day.

Indeed Legolas could feel himself begin to fade as Tauriel had once said, as it was in the nature of an Elf to do so when in the throes of so much lament.

He thought of Aragorn during every wakeful second, and could feel nothing but the powerful feel of his hand upon him. Legolas stood for hours on the edge of the border, no longer waiting and no longer watching like before, but simply breathing and simply dreaming of what he would never come to have.

Tauriel appeared on the fourth hour of that morning, tall and lovely on the highest tree that overlooked Legolas' solitary figure. Weeks before, she would know without doubt that he would immediately notice her, but on this day, nearly two years after the Fellowship's journey had come to an end, the Prince had entirely failed to do so.

Her chest sunk deep at the sight of him; once so lovely and full of spirit, now a shell of all he'd once been.

"The King calls for you," she said at last. "On urgent matter."

Legolas stood perfectly still if not for the sallow flit of his hair. If it wasn't for Tauriel's know-better, she'd deem him the intricate carve of a statue. Still, Legolas said nothing.

"My Prince–"

"You've told him, haven't you."

"I've told the King nothing," said Tauriel. "A lone messenger sent far into the vast miles of the White City arriving nearly at the eve of dusk– surely you wouldn't think it suspicious, as well? A messenger answers to his king, no matter the threat or promise placed upon him from elsewhere."

"And if I stay," Legolas told the wind.

Tauriel's brow furrowed, and her hands tightened into fists.

"Then I would take you to him myself! I will not watch you die over the ilk of a mortal Man–"

At this, Legolas turned sharply, and with the agile sleight of his legs upon the branches of the tree of which she stood in, he appeared before the young Elven Guard with his piercing breath upon her cheek.

"You know _nothing_ of which you speak."

Tauriel held her tongue and nodded, looking towards her feet.

She hadn't even felt the fleet of his leave.

**oOo**

At nightfall, Legolas had faced his father's qualm.

The length of endless years would not wane the fierce protection that Thranduil had always had upon his only son.

They stood in his chambers, a single brow risen high on the Elvenking's face.

"You sent word to Gondor–" Thranduil started, circling the room, "without having told me. I would have sent several in your stead."

He paused, looking directly at his son for the first time in a long while from 'neath the thick curtain of his lashes, noting the pallid complexion Legolas bore– the unnatural strangeness glassed into his eyes.

Thranduil's lips pressed together tightly, a light of ire in his gaze, for in that moment he knew almost instantly what it was that had been troubling his only heir– why it was that Legolas had secretly sent word to a city of Men.

"By the old Earth of which we stand, my own son grieving for the fell touch of a– of a.." Thranduil paused, unable to conjure what was hellishly bitter on the tip of his tongue. Legolas stood lifeless, as if he were never even there at all. "Of a _**Man**_."

The smite of sadness laced itself into his father's disgust like a dying serpent.

Legolas would have otherwise flinched if it were not for his current state. He stared downcast at nothing, a shallow form of breathing upon his chest. Thranduil trembled where he stood, his nostrils flared and with his eyes wet at the rims.

"By the bark of Onodrim, speak!"

Legolas–his features once to that of a sprite, now hollow and lost– looked then to his father, and spoke very quietly:

"If it is destined to befall me in this manner, Adar, then it is in this way that I must die as all things do."

But before the great Elvenking of Mirkwood could differ for a moment longer, Legolas stormed out the door.

**oOo**

There is a message awaiting Legolas the next day.

Writ on vellum and hardly sealed, it was Aragorn's handwriting in black ink.

It spoke of an impending visit within the remaining breadth of that week, and then of nothing else but the rushed twine of Aragorn's name. The words were long and messy. But words were words, and Legolas could not bring his gaze away from them.

"It was brought on horseback by a group of Men," said Tauriel. "Clad in the armor of the White City."

Legolas' skin seemed to have heightened in its color the more he read through the vellum. His fingers traced the ink softly as if he were afraid to lose them. Tauriel could do nothing but bring upon the effort of a smile. This was the most color she'd seen on the Prince's face since the King of Arnor had ceased his visits.

"I've said nothing to your father," she added softly, stepping away. "I leave it to your discretion."

Legolas looked up to the wistful eyes of his friend, and coiled the ends of his lips very faintly.

"Thank you," he said before bringing Tauriel into his embrace. "Thank you."

**oOo**

Not two days later, Aragorn had arrived at midnight.

When the hushed message came that King Elessar waited at the gates, Legolas had been the first to greet him.

His heart pulsed 'neath his chest like the fleet of songbirds in Spring rain, and Legolas swore he would have fallen to his knees if it were not for the shock in his bones that sustained him.

Truly, it was Aragorn nearly as he was when Legolas had first met him, if not the silver crown and plated armor that adorned him. His hair lied brown and curled, reeking of kingly valor and of strength and courage, and of everything that Legolas had ever mourned for. He took a step closer, a growing smile on his thin lips.

"It's been so long–"

But then Legolas stopped frigid in his steps, as had his smile.

For when Aragorn had dismounted and approached into the blue light of the forest, Legolas had seen the broken expression etched into Aragorn's face. Once gallant and filled with hope as it had been when their quest had completed, Aragorn now looked tired and worn, as if age hadn't waited.

Legolas knew of the short years a mortal was given, knew of how quickly the gray in one's hair would appear, but Aragorn was far from his end, leaving Legolas lost in his reason. His brow knit upward, and his mouth fell open to ask many questions, but Aragorn became the first to speak.

"Arwen," he began, tears already falling from his eyes, "she's gone. I could think of only you to come to."

Legolas stood frozen with words and guilt and devastation caked into his throat as he felt Aragorn suddenly collapse to his knees, embracing and clutching on to his legs in a trembling sob of utter agony.

**oOo**

Legolas takes them both to the fountains, and there he comforts Aragorn with his hand upon the wetted planar of his cheek.

Legolas' heart aches to the unison of Aragorn's loss, but it tears even faster and more painfully to the increasing guilt of his longing.

It becomes harder to breathe, harder to hide; Legolas could physically begin to feel himself fading from the inside.

"I am here for you," he whispers into Aragorn's ear. "I am always here."

Aragorn nods, and after an extensive moment of silence he looks into Legolas' eyes for the first time that night. The rush of the fountains around them fills the sound of shock bedded in Aragorn's expression when he finally notices all that Legolas attempted to mask from within the darker shadows of where they stood.

His lips part and his brow softens, and he cannot believe the dreary difference he sees in his Elf friend's complexion from last they had met.

"Legolas," he manages in a whisper, reaching out. "What–"

"Think nothing of it," Legolas quickly says, reassuring. "I've gone on hunts in your absence, that's all."

Aragorn looks as if he wants to press further, as if he does not fully believe when the change in his friend is too great, but Legolas turns away from him and places his fingers into the current of one of the running fountains.

"Her spirit lies now in peace, far beyond the seas of Valinor," he says, "and she thinks of you, in love and in hope. I know this."

A quietness befalls them that Aragorn cannot bring himself to break, and with a glint sadness in his eyes that he knows will outlast him, he approached Legolas from behind and placed his hand upon the lithe twine of his shoulder. They stayed in that way for several moments until Aragorn had found concord in his thoughts from within the lulling brace of the great forest.

"Let me stay," he said, allowing his hand to finally fall from Legolas' shoulder. "Just for some days. I cannot go back like this. I need you."

Legolas cannot say no, could never say no, and he turns to look into the silver eyes of the Man he desired more strongly than the ilk of both air and water. To have heard Aragorn's need of him that day was to have heard myth from somewhere wherein a lost dream.

"This forest welcomes you," Legolas says, bringing his palm to hover upon Aragorn's cheek; aching to touch, _yearning _its warmth– but knowing very well what he cannot have,

"Stay as long as you need."

**oOo**

**Pretty comments make me write faster. :3 xx**


	2. Through Cedars

**&so the conclusion is here! O: Quite sooner than I planned, might I add.**

**A little sad to see it go so quickly. ;~; Writing up these two has been so sinfully amusing~**

**oOo**

The forest hummed at night, sung in old whispers that only Silvan Elves of yore could understand.

Darkness veiled upon the woodland canopy like a blanket of ink, lit only by the moon and by starlight.

Birds nested into the high tops, safe and in sleep, awaiting the light of day to illuminate the danger of the hidden arbors. The hoots of elder owls lingered in the distance, as did the croaking of toads.

Aragorn had refused bed and chamber, and had instead insisted upon the old, familiar comfort of grass.

Many hours had passed, but the Elf Prince did not tire of tracing the sharp contours of Aragorn's features with his half-lidded eyes again and again like he would the lethal barbs of his beloved arrows.

Legolas did not sleep (as he had only a few times in all his lifetime), but rather waited and sat in one of the tall oaken trees with his long leg swinging slowly above Aragorn's slumbering figure, watching.

There, not too high above, Legolas mused several of his shameful desires.

One was of him descending down onto the forest floor where Aragorn lay so that he could fall slowly onto his knees and lean close as lovers do to place a felt kiss onto the coarse lips of the King. He would slip then into the warmth of his brace, to feel the powerful twine of Aragorn's figure against his own; and on daybreak, they would wake and fawn one another and make love until starlight reigned onto the forest once more.

But all would not come to pass, and Legolas would feel his fingers begin to twitch in their want, feel his heart slow in the enormity of his need, blaming himself for having been borne in the ilk of a Sindarin Elf, and not of Arwen herself.

And when in this thought – the most shameful and disgusting of all – he would bite at the skin of his lip until he felt it would tear open and bleed, resentful of what he could never be able to give to this King of Men–

To Aragorn, to his friend.

So it was in that manner that Legolas would watch only in helplessness:

With his brow knit into sadness, and with his hair flitting softly in the cold wind, yearning and dying as most things do when in the snares of so much pain.

**oOo**

Aragorn woke to the sight of Legolas balancing effortlessly on the thin branch of an oak several feet above him.

He'd been looking far into the distance from what Aragorn could see, with his hair lurching in the air like pale wheat.

Truly, Legolas seemed different.

The look in his eye wasn't quite like two years before, and he'd grown pale and thin. Strife would spare no one, it seemed, as Aragorn had heard of Frodo's and Gandalf's departure far into the seas.

But even they would find something from which to smile for, and he hadn't seen Legolas smile as of yet.

Aragorn stood, watching his friend closely,

"Legolas," he called. "Come down. I've warmed the ground for us both."

Legolas looked down from above and curled his lip into a faraway grimace before leaping onto a twig that Aragorn was certain would break from underneath Legolas' weight no matter his lightness.

But it didn't.

He watched as Legolas descended the tall, treacherous tree as if it were nothing. If it were not for Aragorn's vast knowledge of an Elf's casual grace, he would deem Legolas dancing.

"But the ground feels as it was centuries ago," said Legolas, taking the time to look about the floor, "and no different."

Aragorn laughed. He placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder and squeezed as he had several times in the past at campfire when Gimli was still at their side.

"To count on my humorous Elf friend to lighten the sorrow of my days was no mistake," he said with a grin. "Tell me, friend, what is it that I would possibly do without you?"

Legolas had nearly smiled, but that smile had quickly receded back into its lightless depths.

Indeed, what would Aragorn do without him?

Live and last, and rule his kingdom, perhaps.

Love Arwen 'til the end of times as was intended by his fate at Elrond's blessing, and teach his child the long-lasting words of Men of Old and bring upon his sword into his son's tiny hands and show him how a true King of Elessar was meant to rule the privilege of a throne.

Aragorn would do many things without him.

Many good things and none bad – there would be no difference.

"Prosper, perhaps," Legolas said after a while. "Smile upon the greatness of Arnor and Gondor, no different."

At this, Aragorn's expression darkened. Confusion pressed itself onto the crease of his brow, but his hand did not drop itself from Legolas' shoulder. He took a step closer, mere inches separating them.

Legolas could hardly look into the gray eyes of his friend. His own, dull as they might have been, were more telling and obvious than ever before, and Legolas did not think he could bear it if Aragorn came to know what it was that he had hid from him for many lonely moons–

Could not bear the thought of Aragorn knowing that he'd gladly die in the stead of troubling him with the unbecoming farce of his fonding.

Because what he felt did not matter. What he felt was minute and deviant when left so closely in the wake of Arwen's passing, and Legolas could not bare the shame that came with it. He'd rather fade, rather wither, and rot into himself than speak of an Elven lunacy that would destroy anything that he and Aragorn might have still had from a past, dimming friendship.

He would say nothing.

"Legolas" Aragorn began. "Do not speak that way. Without you I would be dead, you know this." A hand reached for Legolas' chin, forcing him to look back at him. "Show me your land and tell me of it. I did not come all of this way for dreariness, nor for the unhappiness of my friend. Surely there are wonders here, and I've heard of the greatness of your father's halls."

Legolas couldn't look away. The sound of Aragorn's voice was a lone chime in the darkness. He forced a sort of grimace, and nodded.

"You wish to meet him, then?"

"I don't see why I couldn't. A king to another," smirked Aragorn, as if still a freshly crowned heir. "Better than lingering here, unannounced, in the deep depths of a forest like runaway lovers would."

Legolas froze, warmed at the cheeks, and stared hard at Aragorn, but the King was too busy chuckling in his mirth to notice.

"Then I will gladly take you to him," Legolas told the air.

**oOo**

The sight of a Man freely sauntering along the pathways of the courtyard was not very common in Mirkwood.

Let alone, the sight of a Man amongst Kings.

Elves stopped in their doings and stared through hushed whispers as Aragorn walked side-by-side by the Prince.

Tauriel was one of them, when they had reached the steps of the palace.

Had it not been King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom, the closest and most beloved friend of the fair Prince, she would have lowered her lashes in disdain before readily drawing her bow upon his head; for she knew of the perversity and dishonesty of mortals, both carnal and of gluttony.

But she'd heard stories, and this King of Gondor was not quite much like his father.

"You wish to see our King," she said.

Aragorn stepped forth, a kindness on his face. "I do."

"On what matters?"

Legolas stepped forward at that, a scoff in his brow, but Aragorn raised his arm and gently stopped him.

"I simply wish to meet him," he said. "It would be an honor."

Tauriel looked to Legolas before stepping aside, lending way into doors that not many would ever come to pass.

**oOo**

The smell of flora and living timber coiled itself into every crook of the palace.

Through large halls and carven corridors that still breathed of rooted life, Aragorn was led by Legolas to the throne room of the Elvenking.

It was a sight that Aragorn thought only happened in old books of lore, for the Elvenking's throne was something out of a wild dream: enormous antlers upon antlers piled into a befitting seat, twined in wooden stairs that led up to a levitated dais.

Legolas brought his hand to his chest and inclined slightly. Aragorn deemed in that chaste moment that he should do the same, as a sign of respect for someone so ancient. Thranduil stopped him, however.

"I know of you," he spoke with his voice of long-forgotten centuries. "Son of Arathorn, and Elrond's friend."

Aragorn looked to the Elvenking and saw something very fair.

Tall and eldritch, like the elder stars the Silvan worshiped. Lovely as light, feigned only by the antediluvian strength in his piercing, blue eyes. Indeed the Elvenking resembled Legolas in more ways than one, and beauty was most assuredly one of them.

He wore a biennial-threaded crown of berries and red leaves, a lovely wreath upon a flaxen cascade of waist-long hair that came running from his shoulders like the spill that came from the pouring of champagne. Truly, the Elvenking lived up to the telltale myths of his striking grace, and of his impregnable presence.

Aragorn wondered, for just one moment, how Gimli would have behaved in the presence of all this.

"And I of you, Thranduil."

There was a pause before Thranduil stood and descended his steps, approaching. Legolas looked on in silence, not meeting his father's gaze that he knew very well had been boring into him.

He hoped to the Valar that his father would say nothing of which he knew, because if he did–

"I also know of your effect upon my son."

Aragorn's eyes widened a bit, taken back. The Elvenking stood but three paces away, unnaturally tall, but not too much taller than him.

"Legolas and I have traveled side-by-side through many ventures," Aragorn responded without effort. "The effect is surely mutual, as I know not how I would be breathing to this day if it were not for him, and Master Gimli."

Thranduil's expression flicked momentarily at the name, as if somewhat familiar from a day long since past.

"The dwarf, you mean?" he asked, almost curious.

"Ai, our friend, and of the Fellowship."

Thranduil smiled, stepping away. "I know of their kin. Brazen creatures. So ready to die for many a cause. Mulish, and full of avarice; always leading them to–." He turned, facing away, and paused for a reason Aragorn knew not. All was quiet. "Legolas would know of this, from long ago. I, too, knew of a dwarf..."

Aragorn did not know what to say.

"Adar–"

"I offer you a feast, and I offer you wine," said Thranduil, his voice no longer as sharp and as coercive as before, but almost distant. "Here, in celebration of this healing Earth, and of times nearly forgotten." He turned, facing Aragorn once more; and if Aragorn had not grown amongst the delicate complexities of Elves, he would know naught of the pensiveness in the eyes of Thranduil. "If only for one favor."

Thranduil raised his hand very briefly in the direction of Legolas, seeming to dismiss him. Aragorn looked behind him, watching as the Prince left promptly without word and without question, a slow hesitance in his stride.

"A favor that would surely be done," Aragorn said when his friend had gone, turning towards Thranduil.

The Elvenking smiled, though it was an empty smile, and said:

"You would not find another quite like him, for there are few living things so deathless willing to give up life for another so short. I knew of this once, and failed in its valor. Do not do the same."

**oOo**

Thranduil's words stayed with Aragorn for the remainder of the night, and throughout the feast.

He watched Legolas more closely now, and knew almost what the Elvenking had meant.

And though Arwen's red lips and twining brown hair would feel forever fresh on the apex of his fingertips, Aragorn knew of her smile upon him.

She'd told him in a whisper, before she'd passed, that she wished him only to smile like first they met, and to remain in that smile, and to hold on to it.

So as Aragorn caught many a gaze from Legolas whilst they celebrated in the fabled festivities of the woodland realm, he knew almost instantly like a large boulder thrown about his head what Thranduil had surely meant.

He said nothing of it for the rest of that night, however.

Nor the next.

**oOo**

On the third and final day of Aragorn's stay, it had rained.

The forest felt different, like a sudden, tremendous growing of things that would grow in no other place.

Legolas had tempted Aragorn on a hunt that evening (as to what they would hunt, both hadn't a clue).

Aragorn had changed into a proper set of clothes more worthy of soiling before leaving to leap and to sprint side-by-side with his friend through the thick, insidious bowers of the sodden wood.

There would be no other crowned King, Legolas told himself, who would race through cedars and laugh so deplorably loud like a young, impish child.

Indeed, there could be no other like Aragorn.

So as they joked and ran through the storm, Legolas began to feel a difference within him. Not so much like death this time, but more like something healing. Here, so close to Aragorn, he felt as though he could climb and probe every single branch and tree of the forest and tell Tauriel and his father all about it.

But more importantly, he felt a warmth in him, one he'd only felt once before when Aragorn had looked at him the way he had on the day of his coronation.

After plenty of hours, Legolas noticed that Aragorn was beginning to be left in the distance. He stopped on the thick rope of a vine and called out to him.

"Perhaps we should rest," he called. "If you wish not to lose so dishonorably in our race."

Aragorn appeared moments later, out of breath and completely drenched, grinning like a madman.

"Or, _perhaps_," he breathed, collapsing onto the trunk of a huge Pine, "you should come down here and fairly tread upon the cruelty of the ground instead of prancing around in the trees."

Legolas smiled, descending. The rain lied mostly draped on the thick canopy of where they were, lending them respite of the storm. Moonlight shone through the fissures of the leaves above them, tracing the sharp contours of Aragorn's face. Stars could be seen through the cracks.

"My father must be celebrating amongst our kin as we speak," Legolas said, sitting some feet away against the opposite tree. "Our people drink endlessly to the miracle of a starlit rain."

There was a quietness as Aragorn caught his breath, unable to take his eyes away from Legolas. The way he spoke of things.. Things he knew so well from throughout his passing years, reminded Aragorn of his time in Rivendell, amongst his friends, amongst Arwen.

"I think of her even if I am not dreaming," he said, nearly in a whisper.

Legolas looked down from the sky and to Aragorn, his smile suddenly waning.

"I think of her kindness, of her gentleness for the smaller things in this world." He paused, swallowing. Legolas could hear the pulse in his chest slow, growing cold. "But she would not want my misery."

Legolas nodded, looking towards the dark, menacing distance of the wood.

"Legolas," Aragorn said after a long, painful silence. He stood, approaching to crouch before his friend. "I also think of you." The Prince looked to Aragorn, eyes wide, and with his lips gone slack as he watched the King bring his ringed fingers upon his cheek. There was a tenderness in his touch, as if treading upon the edge of a dream. "Forgive me."

Aragorn's fingers ghosted then to the thin, pink lips of his friend, to his chin, and then to a misplaced tendril of golden hair, placing it gently behind a pointed, Elven ear. Legolas froze where he sat, unable to speak or breathe, the thunder of his pulse threatening to break the bones 'neath his chest.

And within a second's breadth, the foreign feel of lips lied soft upon his own.

**oOo**

Legolas had read of how a kiss came to be many years ago:

A young Elfling scouring through his father's library when told plenty a time not to.

He learned it to be something priceless and of purity in the life of an Elf, a consummation of sorts.

There had been a day in which he wondered how Tauriel's lips would have tasted against his own, but that curiosity had faded nearly as soon as it came.

He'd asked his father once, how a kiss would be like.

Thranduil had looked down from 'neath his lashes and said, very sharply:

"Like poison. Now tend to the guard and cease your foolery."

But it was nothing like poison.

It was gentle, and pleasantly wet in some places. And if not for Aragorn's stubble, it would have been nearly as it had been when Legolas had brought two of his fingers upon his lips to mimic that of which he had once read as an Elfling.

He felt Aragorn's hands come to rest on both sides of his face, pulling him further against him. It was warm there, a partial cocoon of nothing but the Man Legolas had so terribly craved.

But Legolas knew not what to do when in the throes of this passion. He'd never allowed himself to read any further about the subject. So he sat there, still as stone, and with his eyes wide open.

Aragorn pulled away shortly after, bringing his hands away.

"I.." he said very faintly. "I am sorry–"

"If not now," Legolas interjected, catching Aragorn's wrist in an iron clasp, "then I swear I would never dream to forgive you."

Aragorn's lips parted, looking deeply into the blue eyes of his friend before he closed the distance between them almost desperately. He kissed at the Prince's lips in a felt hunger, in a long-hidden need from somewhere dark and unspoken. Legolas could do nothing but follow Aragorn's lead, allowing himself to fall gently onto his back on the green grass of the forest.

Aragorn loomed upon him now, balanced on hands and knees, as if careful not to crush the Elf below him.

Legolas pulled away after a moment, breathless and flushed to the very tips of his ears.

"Please," he whispered, bringing his fingers to trace against Aragorn's lips, "do not treat me as if I were to break. I am no ilk of Man."

Driven, and drunk in the Elf's taste, Aragorn nodded and reached to press his lips against Legolas again. This time, he pried for an entrance, one of which Legolas granted with haste. The kiss was long and deep, twined only in small intakes of breath. Their hands wandered to each other's bodies, painting the sinew of clothed muscles and bare skin with their fingertips in a perpetual worship.

But Aragorn was of Men, and Men had little control over what would eventually transcend in such situations.

'Neath the nips of kisses along Legolas' white neck, Aragorn had moved his knee to rest between the Prince's thighs, moving further up as the seconds passed. Legolas seemed to have not fully noticed this, and instead continued to tremble under Aragorn's growing venture throughout his skin. Soft sighs escaped the depths of his throat, something of which eventually caused something hard to appear against his thigh.

Legolas' eyes opened.

"Aragorn," he managed to say amongst wandering fingers on the delicate seams of his clothing. "What.."

But Legolas knew slightly on his own what it could have been, and he gasped when he realized it. He watched as Aragorn looked up at him, separating himself from the nape of Legolas' neck.

"I am so sorr–"

"Shh," he lulled, bringing a single finger to the King's lips.

Though Legolas was still considered quite young in the eyes of an Elf, he knew very well what it was that Aragorn both wanted and needed from him. He slid carefully from 'neath Aragorn's grasp, and stood in the peak of starlight, his fingers at the laces of his own clothes.

Aragorn allowed himself to fall against the trunk of an oak, watching in lidded fascination as Legolas began to undress himself.

**oOo**

Few things would match Legolas' bare figure.

His legs were long like the willows he favored, his arms were strong, and his skin lied pale as milk.

His hair came spilling like a golden flood, eyes as bright as seas, and with a virile grace that Aragorn knew he would find nowhere else.

He stood, approaching, before sealing Legolas' lips against his own. He brought his hands to tangle in the tresses of his long hair, leading them both towards the trunk of a tree.

Aragorn undressed himself through kisses, mindful of Legolas' eyes upon him.

"You must concede," Aragorn grinned, "that I am not nearly as lovely as you are, as you've always been."

Legolas looked him up and down, lips parted and with a single, pale hand treading down towards Aragorn's chest.

"And if I don't," he said, taking Aragorn's length into his hand. "What then?"

But Aragorn could not answer so coherently when Legolas had suddenly dropped down to his knees. He held his breath and looked beneath, watching Legolas gaze upon him with a keening curiosity.

"You've no need," Aragorn breathed, "to do any of this–"

Legolas' tongue slipped then to trace the tip of his cock, causing Aragorn to shiver at the spine despite his efforts. His head fell back, feeling as Legolas began to very slowly engulf him.

Legolas kept Aragorn in place by the thighs. He painted his tongue all along the shaft and the underside, allowing his eyes to remain open so that he could take the occasional glimpse at Aragorn's face. And though Legolas had felt the feeling of an erection a few times before, it was still something rather new when he felt himself begin to harden from in between his legs.

Legolas reached down to his own prick as he sunk Aragorn further into his throat, tending to the heat that seared from his ballocks in a slow, lazy pattern. His brow knit upward, the pleasure of what so many Elves deprived themselves of pouring like a scorching storm all throughout his body. He hummed onto Aragorn's girth, noticing the sharp breaths the King would struggle to keep to himself.

The sounds roused a dormant fire in Legolas. Without warning, he impaled himself to the hilt, eyes darting up to look upon Aragorn.

Aragorn pressed himself into the tree hard enough for its bark to sink painfully into the nakedness of his skin, pleading through the guise of several broken incoherencies. This did nothing to stop the Prince, however. He sucked with mirth, swallowing purposefully against the other's cock.

But an Elf could only be so coy.

Aragorn grabbed a firm hold of Legolas' hair, pulled on it, and buried the entirety of himself long and deep into the cavern of the Prince's throat, keeping him there.

Legolas' eyes snapped open, but before he could look towards Aragorn – or attempt to pull away for the sole sake of a breath – Aragorn had earnestly gored himself in and out of his gullet, four different times. A shameful noise transcended itself throughout the forest. Legolas hadn't moved. His hands lied frozen into place against Aragorn's powerful thighs, eyes wet at the rims.

Aragorn's ballocks tensed in the threat of completion, for the Prince's chin now lied perfectly melded against them. Aragorn looked below, and foresaw the sinful way in which the Elf's cheeks lied sore with his breadth.

A single tear ran down Legolas' cheek, though his pale smooth hand still worked itself languidly on the pulse of his own weeping prick.

Aragorn loosened his grip on Legolas' hair, overcome. He stood on the edge; on the mercy of a whim. But Legolas did not pull away.

In fact, he brought his hand to the base of Aragorn's cock and began to suck harder than before. He closed his eyes from 'neath the lovely veil of his lashes, bobbing his head against the other's pelvis in such hellish, fluid grace.

Aragorn felt his eyes begin to recede, the gale of his climax burning away the last of his resolve.

Oh, but it could not end in this way.

It took the courage of a true King to have pulled Legolas from his knees by the root of the hair, separating the hot heat of his throat away. Legolas stood breathless, lips wet and parted, a licentious look in his eye.

"Turn, there," Aragorn said, signaling to the forest ground. "Show me."

**oOo**

Legolas did as he was told without hesitation.

He brought himself upon hands and knees.

And though Legolas was not entirely familiar in the ways of Gondor, he gathered himself a general idea of what it was that Aragorn would wish of him next.

Aragorn stood behind him, mesmerized by the artistry of the catlike body set before him in open invitation.

He fell to his knees, tracing his finger against the lithe twine of Legolas' long, beautiful spine.

"Suck," he said, bringing two fingers to the Elf's lips.

And so Legolas did, with ardor and without the ilk of shame. When Aragorn deemed him finished, he pulled his hand away and placed his fingers taut against Legolas' hole, pushing in slowly.

"_Oh_.."

"Should I stop?" Aragorn asked, freezing.

"No.." Legolas replied, hardly loud enough. "Please.."

Assured, Aragorn resumed his ministrations and pushed inside with patient ease until both his fingers had sunk deep into the Elf. Legolas wormed in his position, trembling at the spine and biting at his lip. Aragorn watched closely, smitten, before pulling his fingers back to the tips.

"_Yes_," Legolas whispered, pushing back into Aragorn's hand. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop.."

Lips parted, and with the root of his lust pulsing like a hurricane at his throat, Aragorn repeated the gesture, ten different times: long and deep. Legolas melted into the ground, crushing his jaw into the grass beneath him. His eyes waned into his skull, several strings of unabashed moans helpless not to escape him.

May the Valar forgive such lechery, for the feeling was better than even the feel of Summer leaves.

Unable to control himself any further, Aragorn took himself in hand and positioned himself directly behind Legolas' trembling backside. He took him harshly by the hips, tangling a thick strand of flaxen hair into the clasp of his fist, pulling back.

Legolas gasped in the sting of it. His back curved beautifully in the moonlight, stealing the breath right from Aragorn's lungs.

"You truly are so lovely," he whispered, placing himself flush against the Elf's hole. "I will.. gently. I wouldn't hurt you–"

"No," Legolas clipped. "Fuck me. Fuck into me and show me. I've dreamt you, I've wished you. And now.. I cannot stop.."

And by the White Tree of Gondor was that enough to have driven Aragorn mad.

He slipped inside, parting the Prince open with the heavy girth of his cock. Legolas arched his back in shock, a loud, graceful mewl escaping him. Aragorn tightened the reign on his hair, tugging back, and took the winning opportunity to sink himself to the hilt.

Legolas whimpered, _wept_, and rocked back desperately into the pressure that ripped him open from behind, utterly shameful if in the eyes of an Elf, but utterly perfect in the eyes of the King of Arnor.

Driven, and mad with his desire, Aragorn draped himself over Legolas so that he could reach the hard, trembling prick that lied beneath. And whilst his own plundered deep within the Prince, Aragorn's powerful hand had milked the Elf of his climax in just two completed strokes.

Legolas came with a cry of sheer sin, lengthy and broken from the thumbing of the soiled slit of his cock.

"You're none as I imagined," Aragorn breathed, letting go of the Elf's hair. Legolas collapsed to the ground, jaw slack and eyes wet as Aragorn dragged him in by the hips, thrusting faster than before. "Insatiable. _Filthy_."

Legolas moaned into the thrum of the storm despite his efforts, the blue of his eyes rolling slowly into the back of his head.

Aragorn held a steady pace, _sweeping _with his hips and slamming in onslaught so that the sinful sound of the Prince's deflowering resonated all throughout the forest for anyone nearby to maybe hear. He watched as Legolas' ass shook in unison to their fucking, forcing Aragorn to perhaps bring his hands to knead against it when the temptation grew too great.

Legolas gasped in embarrassment.

So it was somewhere throughout the delicious process of fucking the fair Prince of Mirkwood into submission and debauchery that Aragorn's cock began to sear and pulsate, the coil of his completion finally unraveling from within his pelvis. He watched, one last time, as his cock slid from out of the Elf's hole, bedewed and wetted, allowing himself to sink far deeper so that he could spend in thirst from far within Legolas' quivering figure.

Aragorn poured his essence thoroughly, every last ribbon of seed, until he felt himself collapse beside the Prince on the coolness of the woodland's grass.

They stayed in that way for a long while, side-by-side, breathless and looking into each others eyes like lovers would.

"What am I to you?" Legolas asked at last, voice small and hair spilt like sunlight beneath him.

Aragorn reached then, to the face of his most cherished friend, and said:

"A dream I do not hope to deserve."

"Will you return?"

"I will, if you would have me."

Legolas smiled, his eyes so much brighter.

"I would have you as I always have, and I would wait."

They do not look away from one another.

They don't have to.

**oOo**

**Drop me a line and I'll love you forever. :3 xx**


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